


if i give more than enough ground (will you claim it)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5 +1, 5 Things, Blowjobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Masochism, M/M, Steve Rogers is very sad, background Steve/Bucky - Freeform, brief description of first aid, pre-Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 04:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10236398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: Steve bites his lip. Pulls his hand away, and looks down, and then up, and Rumlow is just looking at him, that’s all, looking at him with a knowing expression. It makes him look down again, and then Rumlow is touching the back of Steve’s neck, the calluses of his palm hot and rough on Steve’s skin.“Huh,” Rumlow says, low, and that’s it, Steve’s body folding down into it: the touch, the gun, his knees.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coffeeinallcaps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/gifts).



_i._

What it is is muscle memory; that's all.

“This fucking useless goddamn tac gear, I swear to fuck-” Rumlow is grumbling, quiet, half under his breath, and from where Steve is crouching he glances across, sees the problem. The straps of his harness are twisted the way they always are, cutting tight and uncomfortable high up across his thigh, and Rumlow can’t reach ‘em without putting down his sniper rifle. Steve’s already low down; it’s nothing for him to drop lower, to settle on one knee and reach for the straps.

It only takes a minute. Rumlow doesn’t say anything, just watches, narrowly, and then Steve’s fingers brush the inside of his thigh, the warmth of Rumlow’s skin under the canvas and slickly black nylon of his pants, and he feels himself blush. The heat of it rising above his collar. He and Rumlow, they don’t know each other, not really. This is their third mission; Steve hasn’t figured him all the way out. It’s just– he did it without thinking, is the thing. Trying to be _helpful_.

Steve bites his lip. Pulls his hand away, and looks down, and then up, and Rumlow is just looking at him, that’s all, looking at him with a knowing expression. It makes him look down again, and then Rumlow is touching the back of Steve’s neck, the calluses of his palm hot and rough on Steve’s skin.

“Huh,” Rumlow says, low, and that’s it, Steve’s body folding down into it: the touch, the gun, his knees.

“Fuckin’ thing always binds when I’m rappelling,” Rumlow says, flexing his thigh like he’s checking the harness won’t tangle again, and Steve swallows.

“Yeah,” he echoes, “fuckin’ thing,” and hears Rumlow laugh, the sound of it dirty. It makes his throat dry; it makes him swallow again; he’s still on his knees, still flush with heat, the touch of Rumlow’s palm across the back of his neck like a brand, and he pushes away, pushes himself up, squares his shoulders.

“Come on,” Steve says, “we got a mission,” and Rumlow pauses.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “on it, Cap,” and something about the dark curl of his voice sends a thrill through Steve. The drop of adrenaline, the fear-prickle of starting a fight. It’s familiar, is the thing.

Rumlow’s still watching him, he can feel it; it makes Steve edgy.

 

 _ii_.

The thing about Rumlow is he’s rough: all of him is rough, and Steve knows it, Steve wants it, soon as he met him knew it all the way down his spine. Rumlow’s a good man, Steve thinks, a principled man, knows what he’s fighting for; you don’t get signed up to SHIELD if you’re not at least mostly on the side of the angels, but that don’t mean he ain’t violent. That’s okay, Steve thinks. He knows violent men. He knows violence right down to his bones, and it gets him.

“You’re good at it,” Rumlow tells him; they’re sparring, brutal. It makes Steve breathless: dark hair, stubble, a New York accent. He has to keep reminding himself-  “Yeah, you’re good, nobody’s saying you ain’t, fuck, but your style’s old-fashioned, man. Gotta get with the times. MMA, that's where it's at.”

“Calling me old?” Steve asks, and Rumlow grins: a flash of teeth.

“You saying you ain’t?”

“I’m not,” Steve says, “come _on_ ,” and Rumlow kicks him in the back of the knee. It hurts, it _hurts_ , pushes him off-balance. Another kick, taking his feet out from under him: this is how it feels, Steve thinks, this is always how it’s felt.

“You look good on your knees,” Rumlow says, low, confidential, like he’s telling Steve a secret. Perhaps it’s meant to be taunting: hot breath on Steve’s ear, and big hands on his shoulders, holding him down. Sweat rolling in beads down his spine. “Like you’re made for it, Cap.”

“Shut up,” Steve says. Breaks the hold, pushes himself up. “Come on, come _on_ ,” and Rumlow is laughing again, mean. Dragging his fingers through his hair, smoothing it slick with sweat and gel back from his forehead, and Steve follows the motion; it’s just how Bucky did it, and Steve’s throat is all of a sudden tight with wanting.

“Uh huh,” Rumlow says, “sure,” and gets Steve in the mouth, a lucky punch: lip split on his teeth, the iron taste of blood, and it stings, it stings.

 

_iii._

Steve’s still tonguing at his mouth, feeling the hurt of it, unwinding his wrist wraps and thinking about the weight of Rumlow’s hands on his shoulders. And then Rumlow’s pushing the door open, all swagger. Gives Steve an up-and-down like he knows what Steve’s been thinking, maybe.

“You got blood on your chin,” he says, and Steve shrugs, one-shouldered; licks his thumb and wipes it away. Conscious, the whole time, of how Rumlow is watching: hot, sharp, the kind of attention that makes the hair stand up at the back of Steve’s neck.

“I get it?” he asks, and Rumlow squints at him. Steps in close, takes Steve by the jaw so he can tilt his face into the light. It’s possessive; Steve knows it and Steve’s body knows it, and he swallows hard, closes his eyes in the moment before Rumlow touches his thumb to Steve’s lower lip.

“Yeah,” Rumlow says, not taking his thumb away; he’s pressing down; it _hurts_ , and Steve’s hard, head rushing with it. The locker room is very quiet. Smells of sweat and disinfectant, and up close Rumlow smells of sweat too, fresh and strong, and under that, something sweet. Cologne, maybe.

The kind of pomade Bucky used smelled like violets, Steve remembers, and opens his eyes.

 _Can I–_  he wants to say, and doesn’t; just lets his knees buckle and goes down slow, Rumlow’s thumb hard on his mouth the whole way down.

“You do look good on your knees,” Rumlow tells him again. Sets his palm warm against Steve’s throat, just the slightest pressure when Steve swallows, and rubs the pad of his thumb over the tender skin behind Steve’s ear. It’s almost gentle; Steve finds himself leaning into the touch.

“Yeah,” he says instead, pulling himself back, “I _am_ good on my knees, or so I been told,” and that has Rumlow barking out a laugh, startled. Sliding his fingers up to press on the hinge of Steve’s jaw, the seam of his mouth.

“Are you just,” he says, and shoves his sweats down his hips, one-handed; doesn’t take his hand off Steve’s jaw. Strokes his dick once, twice: uncut and thick, and it’s like Steve can taste it already; he’s opening his mouth for it before Rumlow even guides it in.

It’s good; it’s good, it’s so good, Steve’s knees ache and his jaw aches and his lip smarts and smarts, a high sharp hurt cutting through everything else. He’s got Rumlow’s hands on him; he’s got spit running down his chin, messy; he’s got sweat dripping in his eyes, and then Rumlow’s got him held tighter, the kind of grip that’ll leave bruises. Steve marks up quick. Heals quicker. He swallows. Chokes, swallows again. Bitter down his throat, and his eyes are stinging with tears: it’s good, it’s what he wanted; it hurts and it’s good.

Maybe he expects Rumlow to walk away; maybe that’s what he’d been bracing for. Just the kind of meanness that’d keep Steve on edge. He doesn’t: he doesn’t, just grabs Steve by the hair, drags him up to standing. Gets his back up against the lockers, a padlock digging painful into Steve’s left shoulder blade, and slants his mouth over Steve’s like he’s curious. Presses the heel of his hand against Steve’s dick through his pants, and that’s all it takes: Steve’s coming, gasping wet into Rumlow’s mouth, hands scrabbling against the metal of the lockers. It’s a lot; he knows it’s a lot. Blinks hard. Doesn’t cry.

“Jesus,” he says instead, “Jesus _Christ_ ,” and Rumlow smirks at him. Slicks his hair back again, and Steve blinks. Brown eyes, not blue. They really don’t look that similar.

“Was that your first kiss since nineteen fuckin’ whatever?”

“No,” Steve says, lying; it was. It is. The first time he’s been kissed since 1945. The taste of salt in the back of his throat.

 

_iv._

He sees the blood before anything else: dark and wet, a patch of deeper black on the black of STRIKE gear, and Steve knows what bullet wounds look like, how they bleed out.

“You took a hit,” he says, and Rumlow shrugs out of his tac jacket, glances down at his side.

“Just a graze,” he says. “It ain’t bad. I’ll go to Medical when we get back.”

“Since when do you ever go to Medical,” Steve asks, like an asshole, and Rumlow raises an eyebrow.

“When do _you_?”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says. “Just. Let me, will you?”

“I’m serious, Cap, I’ll be fine. You know I been hurt worse than this, shit, I’m still walking and talking like your favorite toy, ain’t I?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says. “I know you’re tough. Brock, let me. Alright?”

“Yeah,” Rumlow says, slow. “Yeah, Steve, alright.”

There’s a first aid kit on the Quinjet, comprehensive enough for more serious wounds than this; Steve gets out the tweezers, the iodine, bandages and needles and floss. Lays it out on an unfolded field dressing wrapper, kneels between Rumlow’s feet. Peels his t-shirt away, watching how Rumlow doesn’t wince.

“See?” he rasps. “Just a graze.”

“You got some dirt in there,” Steve tells him. “And it’s gonna need stitches.”

“What are you waiting for, huh?” Rumlow asks, and Steve gets to it. Washing away the blood and dirt, prising loose a splinter – wood from a door, perhaps – and Rumlow swears, makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“I can-” Steve says, reaching for the local anesthetic.

“Nah,” Rumlow tells him, and Steve hesitates, glances up at him. Watches him make a face Steve can’t quite interpret. “Just do it. I don’t mind how it hurts.” Steve hesitates another minute, and Rumlow touches his shoulder, taps two fingers to Steve’s jaw. “Get on with it, Cap. I can handle it.”

“I know you can _handle_ it,” Steve mutters, “that ain’t the question here,” but he threads the needle, pushes it through skin quick and unsympathetic the way you gotta be with stitches, and Rumlow doesn’t make a sound.

He’d bandaged Bucky once this way. More than once: they’d all been injured, time and again, but he’d done it once to begin with. The march back from Azzano, Bucky pale and sweaty and trembling, trying to hide whatever it was Hydra had done until they’d stopped for a rest and he’d folded right over, a puppet with no strings. Steve had got on his knees, bandaged him up slow and careful, and Bucky had settled his hand in Steve’s hair like he wasn’t quite convinced Steve was real, maybe.

He ties off the last stitch. Puts a dressing over it, tapes it in place, sits back on his heels to peel off the bloody nitrile gloves, and neither of them say anything for a minute. Rumlow leans forward. Slides his hand into Steve’s hair, almost a caress; it’s the gentlest he’s ever touched him, and Steve breathes into it. Feels the past snap back like a rubber band stretched too far.

“Thanks,” Rumlow says, real low and quiet, and Steve bows his head, feels the weight of it.

 

 _v_.

“Get on your knees,” Rumlow barks: a kick to the back of Steve’s knee just the way he did, just the way he knows how to do, muscle memory maybe kicking in, and the thing is, Steve hardly hears him. Just goes down, thinking _Bucky._ Thinking _it was Bucky, and he_ –

“ _Not_ here,” Rumlow barks, an order that’s meant to be followed, and Steve knows what it means. Feels Rumlow hot and close, his breath on Steve’s neck, his hands yanking Steve into the cuffs. The solid presence of him at Steve’s back, and this isn’t _personal_ , except it’s Bucky, and it’s personal, of course it is.

 

_(vi.)_

Here they are at the end, and it’s Steve looking down, this time. Steve on his feet, and Rumlow on his knees, and they’re both breathing hard like neither of them can let go of all this shit that’s been between them.

 _Your pal, your buddy, your Bucky,_ he says, and _tell Rogers,_ he says, and _when you gotta go, you gotta go_ , he says, looking up at Steve, and the thing is Steve's never seen him from this angle before, the line of his throat bared with how his head is tilted back. It unfolds something in him, tender and painful and deadly; it locks him up immovable; he’d reach for Rumlow’s hair, maybe, or his mouth. Violence or comfort or both.

 _When you gotta go_ , Bucky had said, once, and hadn't finished the sentence. Sitting on the floor of the tent like he'd just fallen down and couldn’t get up, and Steve had reached out, touched his hand to the soft curls of Bucky's hair. Watched how Bucky had shuddered and bent his head under the weight, forehead coming to rest on Steve's knee.

 _He said Bucky's name_ , Steve says, and lets them think that’s how it is; but that's not all it is. That's not all.

**Author's Note:**

> me: oh u know i don't really think i'll write steve/rumlow but it's interesting  
> me: ... oh
> 
>  
> 
> anyway I am [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/)


End file.
